Beneath a blackened, lightning-scarred fallen tree, huddled in the suffocating darkness, Nikolai shivered. Not from cold, though the chill of the earth seeped into him, but from the phantom echo of agony. The pain from the sunlight had subsided into a deep, throbbing ache, a constant reminder burned into his flesh. He gingerly touched his hand, the skin beneath the grime feeling tight, brittle, unnaturally hot. The hunger gnawed, sharper now that the adrenaline had fled, but overshadowed by the stark, terrifying knowledge of his new vulnerability. Daylight was poison. He was trapped in the dark, a creature of shadow, while his enemy walked freely under the sun she had damned him with. Isolation pressed in, vast and absolute as the wilderness itself.
Miles away, in an opulent apartment high above the city, Wanda remained profiled against the window, a statue silhouetted against the teeming street far below. Her stillness wasn't passive; it filled the room, charging the air with unspoken weight. She seemed to gaze past the city limits, focused on something distant and unseen – perhaps a skeletal forest, a treacherous ridge.
The uniformed messenger shifted his feet, the scrape of his boots loud in the tense quiet. He cleared his throat, a nervous tic. "Ma'am?" he ventured hesitantly. "The Consul awaits your reply."
Wanda didn't turn. Her voice, when it came, was calm and level, slicing through the silence. "Inform the Consul I will attend."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am." Relief washed over the messenger's posture. He sketched a stiff bow to her unmoving back and retreated, pulling the heavy door closed behind him with a careful, soft click, as if fearing any louder sound might shatter the room's strange equilibrium.
The moment the door clicked shut, the stillness around Wanda broke. She turned from the window, moving with fluid grace towards the center of the room. With smooth motions, she drew heavy curtains across the window, plunging the space into soft, artificial light. Her earlier anger, stoked by recent events, had cooled, settling into a focused, glacial calm. Before her, spread across a polished table, lay a large, detailed map depicting the rugged wilderness far beyond the city walls. Her fingers, pale and deliberate, traced a path through the skeletal forests, across the treacherous ridges – marking the area where the hunters had fallen.
He survived the sun. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes held a chilling intensity. Unexpected. Damaging, yes, but not fatal. A flaw in the foresight, or an intervention? It didn't matter. The outcome remained the same. He had to die. Her gaze drifted across the map, considering routes, terrain, possibilities. There were other ways… older ways. Her mind worked, cold and methodical, already plotting Nikolai's downfall.
Outside in the corridor, Rick let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding as the door to Wanda's apartment finally closed. He leaned against the opposite wall for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck where the skin prickled. Ben waited nearby, arms crossed, his expression impassive.
"Well?" Ben asked quietly.
Rick straightened. "She accepted. Didn't even turn around." He shook his head slightly, the image of her still silhouette sharp in his mind, though now contrasted with the heavy thud of the door. "Place felt… charged. Like static before a lightning strike."
"Some people carry their own weather," Ben observed flatly. "Let's go. Josef doesn't appreciate tardiness."
They walked down the corridor, their footsteps muffled by the runner carpet.
Down on the street, the grey chill of the city air hit them. Their transport waited – a steam-powered sedan, built tough, its dark grey panels bearing the scuffs and faint scratches of service. Polished brass fittings around the headlamps and gauges offered a dull gleam against the functional design. A faint, rhythmic hiss emanated from the boiler compartment.
Charlie stood beside the driver's door, pinching the end of a hand-rolled cigarette. Early twenties, his usual wide grin was slightly subdued today under his cap. He saw them approach, gave a quick nod, and flicked the butt into a nearby disposal unit with practiced aim.
"All set?" Charlie asked.
"Message delivered," Ben confirmed. "Let's move."
Ben took the rear passenger seat, while Rick slid into the front beside Charlie. With a smooth engagement of gears, Charlie pulled the car into the orderly flow of traffic, the steam engine settling into its low, rhythmic chug. Horse-drawn carriages shared the road with other steam cars and the occasional coughing internal combustion vehicle. Nimble jinrikisha wove between them, their runners calling warnings.
"So?" Charlie glanced at Rick, then back at the road. "What's the verdict, Rick? Guest of the Consul... is she as intimidating as they say? All secrets and shadows?"
Rick watched the city slide past – sturdy pre-war stone mixed with newer, functional blocks, rarely over six stories. He thought of the still figure at the window, then the sudden sense of contained energy just before the door closed. "Didn't see her face," he admitted. "But… you feel it. Presence. Like a coiled spring." He shifted slightly. "Keep your eyes on the road, Charlie."
"Just asking," Charlie mumbled, checking the rearview mirror. "Everyone talks about her."
"Talk is cheap," Ben's dry voice came from the back seat. "Watch the road."
They passed through Foundation Square. Rick's gaze flickered over the six imposing bronze Founders atop their central granite plinth – the Orator, the Soldier, the Industrialist, the Law Giver, the Visionary, the Protector. Greened with age, their resolute faces watched over the city built from ruin, a silent reminder of order imposed on chaos. "Traffic always snarls up around the plinth during shift changes," Charlie commented, expertly navigating around a slow-moving delivery wagon.
"Just means more eyes on everything," Ben replied gruffly from the back, his gaze sweeping the square for anything out of the ordinary. The car continued on, leaving the silent judgment of the Founders behind.
Turning onto a broader avenue leading towards the administrative district, the Consul's Estate loomed ahead. Inspired by the old Palais de Chaillot, two vast, curved wings of pale stonework swept outwards, embracing a wide central terrace – the Esplanade – overlooking the city. It projected enduring, ordered power, set back behind imposing wrought-iron gates where meticulous guards waved them through.
Instantly, the noise of the city seemed to drop away. Inside the walls, lush, impossibly green lawns and meticulously tended flowerbeds replaced the functional grey. An oasis of controlled opulence, the quiet felt almost unnatural. The car stopped before the main entrance.
Inside, polished marble floors amplified their footsteps initially, but soon they were ascending a wide staircase and navigating silent corridors muffled by thick carpets. Their uniforms felt stark against the grandeur. They stopped outside a heavy wooden door marked only with a simple brass plaque: Head of Security.
"Standard report," Ben murmured, his voice low. "Stick to the facts."
Rick nodded, took a steadying breath, and knocked twice, sharp and precise.
"Enter," commanded a voice from within, cold as chipped ice.
The office was large, sparsely furnished, cast in dimness by heavy curtains blocking the windows. Tactical maps dotted with markers covered one wall. A large, dark wooden desk dominated the space, clear save for a bulky, black bakelite telephone and a single, neat stack of files. Behind it sat Josef.
Late forties, lean, hard. His grey uniform was immaculate. Short dark hair, receding slightly, revealed faint scars near his hairline. Sharp cheekbones, strong jaw. His pale, icy grey eyes flicked up from the files as they entered – assessing, dismissive. He didn't rise or gesture for them to sit.
"Report," Josef said flatly.
Rick stepped forward. "Madam Wanda received the Consul's invitation to the Foundation Concord. She accepts, sir."
Josef gave a single, minimal nod, his gaze already returning to the top file on his desk. He tapped it once with a clipped finger. "Good. Her security detail." His eyes flicked up again, hard and direct, boring into Rick. "Ensure they understand the protocols fully. There will be no deviations. The Concord is critical."
The intensity in Josef's stare sent a chill down Rick's spine.
"Security elevates city-wide, 0600 tomorrow," Josef continued, his voice clipped. "Patrol rosters confirmed by end of shift?"
"Yes, sir," Rick replied crisply.
"Double-verified, sir," Ben added.
"Checkpoint procedures? Any vulnerabilities noted in the latest drills?"
"Minor timing issue at Gate 4, corrected and re-drilled. Report submitted," Ben stated.
Josef's eyes narrowed slightly, lingering on Rick for a moment that felt uncomfortably long. "Any anomalies – logistical, personnel, anything out of the ordinary – report directly to me. Secure channel only. This week demands absolute control." His gaze swept over them. "Understood?"
The emphasis on absolute control and anomalies hung in the air.
"Understood, sir," Rick and Ben replied together.
A beat later, Charlie added, slightly too eagerly, "Understood, sir!"
Josef's icy gaze snapped to Charlie for a bare second. It was a cold, silent assessment, heavy with disdain, that made the younger man visibly tense, his shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly.
"Dismissed," Josef said, his attention already back on the files.
The three men exited, the heavy door closing behind them with a soft, definitive thud. They walked back down the silent, carpeted corridor. Rick glanced back at the door, a frown creasing his brow. Josef's cold intensity, the pressure regarding the Concord protocols, the way he'd dismissed Charlie – it left a residue of unease.
Near a junction with another corridor, as they passed a recessed doorway obscured by shadow, muffled sounds from within resolved into a sharp, furious voice, choked with anger. Rick caught only fragments, punctuated by the tone of absolute command:
"...unacceptable!... Concord... orders from Volkov!... Takashi... out! Make it happen now!"
The tirade was cut off abruptly by the solid click of an inner door shutting.
Silence flooded the corridor once more. Rick stopped, the angry undertones of the voice echoing Josef's earlier cold intensity about control. He glanced at Ben, whose face had hardened, eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. The fragments – Volkov, Takashi, out, Concord – were enough. Combined with Josef's pressure, they painted a clear, dangerous picture of internal conflict simmering just beneath the Estate's opulent surface. An uneasy understanding passed between them wordlessly. Ben gave a curt, almost invisible nod.
"Let's go," Ben said quietly, his voice level, already moving again.